


Happy Birthday, Sherlock: Story of a Foursome

by goingbadly



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Birthday Parties, Dominance, Established Relationship, Foursome, Group Sex, M/M, Multi, Orgasm Denial, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Teasing, Tumblr Prompt, weirdly consentual considering the characters involved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 17:12:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1991052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingbadly/pseuds/goingbadly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock, John, Jim, and Sebastian are all at dinner together, and it's "fun." Which is the prompt I got. Which means that on Sherlock's birthday, JOHN gets a surprise. The surprise is a foursome. They all have sex. I... I am sorry for the things that I have done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Birthday, Sherlock: Story of a Foursome

**Author's Note:**

> [Keeloca](http://keeloca.tumblr.com/) requested this for me and it got a bit out of hand and I don't know what I have done but it's very silly and very pornographic so that's good I suppose. Completely unbetad and written in one night after the bar, so blame any mistakes on me.

**S.H.**

“Oh no,” John says, staring at the entrance as if his stomach has taken up permanent residence somewhere around his shoes. “Oh _bloody hell…_ ” Sherlock follows his gaze across the busy restaurant, ignoring the swarm of waiters that buzzes out of the kitchens.

Jim Moriarty cuts an unmistakeable figure in the crowd; a dark smudge on the brightness of mirrors, champagne glasses, and beautifully dressed women. He’s got a sleek black suit and a glittering white shark’s smile. Sebastian Moran walks one step behind him, one step to the right, like a royal consort. When he leans over to speak to the maître d’, candlelight gleams off his golden hair. Sherlock notices the condom in Moran’s front pocket; the creases on his lapels that can only have been left by someone using it to drag him around. His shoulders are tense, but he keeps it off his face; hiding his nervousness behind a soldier’s impassivity.

Sherlock himself isn’t nervous until Jim crosses his arms impatiently and scans the crowd.

It should be impossible to feel John and Sherlock’s stares from across the busy restaurant; but Sherlock might as well be a lodestone for how fast Jim finds him. Jim’s eyes are dark and hollow and smudged with shadow in the flickering light. It makes them look bruised, and entirely inhuman. He raises an eyebrow.

Sherlock’s mouth goes dry.

“What the hell is _he_ doing here?!” John says, more to himself than to Sherlock. He starts to stand, and Sherlock kicks him hard in the shins to dissuade him. John tumbles back into his chair with an undignified yelp. “What was that f–“

“You were quite clear that if I endured your pathetic little gathering with Gavin and Molly,” Sherlock explains patiently, “I would be able to celebrate _my_ birthday as _I_ wanted, on the actual night. Do stay where you are, John, it’s awfully rude to run.” Sherlock raises a hand. Jim nods, turns, and grabs a handful of Moran’s blond hair. Through the crowd Sherlock can’t tell what Jim whispers in Moran’s ear. He does see the little push Jim gives Moran, towards the table.

Sherlock sneaks another look at John. He’s staring at Sebastian Moran with white-faced shock. “So you _do_ know him,” Sherlock says triumphantly – even though it’d been Jim that guessed that.

John nods dumbly. Moran is head and shoulders above most of the crowd as he pushes his way to their table, clearing a path for Moriarty. He moves like a jungle cat; unhurried, but with the clear threat of violence in every line of his wiry frame. From the look on John’s face, his mouth has gone just as dusty as Sherlock’s.

Sherlock is _reasonably_ sure this was a good idea. And he’s usually right. Most of the time. Except when he’s not.

_Oh, **damn**._

Sherlock grabs his wine glass and manages a hasty swallow before Moran reaches the table. Moran draws out a chair beside John and falls into it with practiced nonchalance. Sherlock gets a good look at Moran’s expression, before he turns to John; anticipatory and calculating, like an apex predator stalking prey.

Sherlock’s sure this is perfectly safe. Well, probably safe. _Well_ , as safe as anything _can_ be, with Jim Moriarty.

Perhaps it _hadn’t_ been the best idea –

Cold fingers curl around the small hairs at the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Happy Birthday,” a deep voice drawls, so close to his ear that Sherlock can feel the brush of Jim’s breathing. Before he can help himself, Sherlock’s eyes flick shut. He focuses inwards, concentrating on the myriad chemical reactions of his body; the plume of norepinephrine that explodes through his veins, chased by spirals of dopamine and cortisol and testosterone, like gusts of wind sweeping through him. Jim lets Sherlock go, and he barely feels it; too busy chasing specters in his brain.

Jim Moriarty is, on the whole, significantly better than heroin.

**J.W.**

Even allowing for all the weird impossibilities and surprise resurrections in John Watson’s life before tonight, he counts on two people in this world being absolutely and certainly dead. The first is his gran, (who came to an untimely end crossing the street without her specs, and probably was a bit too senile for a Lazarus plan) and the second is Sebastian Moran. Who walked off into the center of a gunfight alone five years ago, L115A3 long range rifle over his shoulder, and didn’t even bother glancing back.

So it’s understandable that the sight of Seb, dropping into a mundane restaurant chair with his familiar crooked grin, makes John go a little bit faint. His hair’s a bit longer than John remembers, and darker without the Afghan sun to bleach it white. But his smile is the same; and the jagged scar that splits his face, lip to temple. John’s head spins, as if he and Sherlock have been drinking something much harder than wine. He almost misses Moriarty bending over Sherlock and whispering something in his ear. For a moment, the whole restaurant seems dim and hushed. Sebastian’s vivid blue eyes flick upwards; pinning John with his customarily intense stare. John’s tongue flicks out, wetting his lips.

“Been a while,” Sebastian says insouciantly, pointed canines showing through his wide, uneven smile. John’s mouth works but sound doesn’t seem to want to come out.

“We brought party hats,” Moriarty adds brightly. He reaches in to the inside pocket of his suit-jacket and frowns. “Or at least, we were supposed to. Sebastian –“

“I had a sneaking suspicion you were going to make me wear one, so they’re in the kitchen trash back home,” Seb tells Moriarty flatly, over his shoulder.

Moriarty’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Touching my things, Tiger?”

“They had _glitter._ ”

“That’s hardly an excuse.”

Seb twists enough to rest his elbow on the back of the chair, giving Moriarty a look he formerly reserved for really _sticky_ dustoff missions.

“No one is wearing a _party hat_ ,” Sherlock declares firmly, with an air of appalled disgust.

John’s mouth works several times before his voice comes back to him. “You were _dead,_ ” he croaks. Moriarty stops glowering at Seb long enough to look up at John. There’s a cruel smile growing on his face. Sherlock glances from Moriarty, to Moran, to John; his pale eyes narrowed and flickering like a microfiche machine.

“Did you really think that?” Moran asks, into what is rapidly becoming an unbearable silence.

“What was I – How could you not – you _walked_. Into a slaughter – in a bloody _warzone_ – “

“And they couldn’t touch me,” Seb says simply, as if John should have known that already. John’s face feels hot and he has the uncomfortable feeling he’s flushing with anger. He grinds his teeth together and breathes out hard through his nose to calm himself.

Moriarty giggles. “It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s come back from the dead…” He reaches out and threads his pale fingers through Seb’s golden hair, as if he has every right in the world. Seb twitches his neck uncomfortably. Moriarty ignores his discomfort – rather on purpose, John thinks, and probably because the twisted psycho _enjoys_ it when people squirm.

“Tasteless,” Sherlock sniffs.

“Aren’t Reichenbach jokes funny yet?” Moriarty asks innocently.

For some reason, John can’t take his eyes off Sebastian’s thick hair, sliding against Moriarty’s skin. The sight is wrenching something in his stomach into a hard knot.

“Poor _Johnny_ ,” Moriarty simpers at Sherlock, “He really thought his precious Colonel was dead. Don’t you feel bad?”

“Isn’t the Colonel dead?” Seb asks, tilting his head at an awkward angle to grin at Moriarty. From the amused look they share, it’s a familiar joke.

“Colonel of _Crime,_ now, dear.”

“I will never understand your need for faggy nicknames.”

“If you two are _done…_ ” Sherlock interjects impatiently. Sebastian laughs. John’s stomach lurches at the sound of it, familiar from a hundred nights playing cards and drinking cheap beer in their CHU. Seb’s laugh is a harsh bark of sound, too loud and too short to be friendly. It gets worse when he’s drinking or smoking, throat-shreddingly raw. John sucks his lips in and presses the sensitive skin so tightly together that it aches.

Seeing John’s expression, Seb shrugs a sympathetic shoulder in his direction. For Sebastian, that counts as an on-his-knees apology.

Moriarty finally lets go of Sebastian’s hair (John tries not to growl triumphantly) and Seb turns in his chair, scanning the room for a waitress to signal over. When he finally spots one, he beckons with two raised fingers. John doesn’t blame her for altering course and making a beeline towards Sebastian. Even without the suit and the powerful way he holds himself, Sebastian doesn’t look like he’s put on an ounce of weight since his combat days, John makes a mental note to start going back to the gym.

He won’t really go back to the gym long-term, of course, that’s a lost cause, but he’ll make a valiant _effort_ this time.

The waitress is painfully young and obviously having a serious failure of gay-dar; she’s eyeing the whole table with impressed and interested eyes. John doesn’t have the heart to pull her aside and point to them all in turn – _Gay, taken, psychotic, psychotic **and** gay, **and** probably taken… _

“Bombardier for me,” Sebastian rattles off to the waitress when she pulls out her pad. “Bring Holmes another bottle of whatever he’s drinking – and a Scotch, neat, for him,” Sebastian jerks his chin at Jim, “But only if you’ve got Highland Park or Lagavulin. If what you’ve got is cheap, he’ll take another Bombardier instead – “ There’s a pause, like a caught breath, and John thinks, _well of course he wouldn’t remember, it’s been half a decade_ , then Sebastian finishes, “And a Fuller’s ESB for John. Stick it in the freezer while you’re making the others, to chill it down.”

Then the exhale. Something goes loose in John’s chest, that had been wound tight. “You remember.”

Without looking at him, Sebastian says, “Of course I do.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, drumming his long fingers on the table. He looks bored. “ _Sentimental._ ” Moriarty favors him with a grin.

John slumps back in his chair, defeated. His mouth tastes of moon dust – the white sand of Afghanistan that coated everything he touched during deployment. He wants to be angry – Christ, he should still be protesting the fact that Sherlock’s birthday dinner is apparently going to revolve around a psychotic mass-murderer and the man that John… that John…

John very firmly puts the end of that sentence on hold. He’ll finish the thought in private later, when he can have a bit of a lie down. Or a cry.

“So you’re…” John manages, finally, to Sebastian, and trips over the end of the sentence. He sounds a tad concussed, but there’s nothing to be done about that.

“All mine,” Moriarty sings, before Sebastian can respond. “Dear thing. I traded seven magic beans to a mujahideen for him.”

“You had a grenade _thrown into my jail cell,_ ” Sebastian clarifies, “I nearly _died._ ”

Moriarty shrugs. “Semantics.” Eschewing a chair, he pulls Sherlock away from the table and drops into his lap. Apart from a glare so sharp it practically gives John a paper-cut, Sherlock doesn’t make any move to stop Moriarty. He doesn’t even complain, which is more significantly more surprising, considering it’s Sherlock’s favorite activity.

John, taken aback, watches as Moriarty twists to press his chest against Sherlock’s side. _Some sort of manipulation to make Sherlock uncomfortable? Invading his personal space?_ The line of Moriarty’s jaw is starkly defined as he leans up and presses his mouth to Sherlock’s ear. His throat works as he whispers. Sherlock’s eyes flutter half-shut, then open again, sliding to John. John can’t tell why Sherlock’s expression makes his stomach clench, but it does. There’s a dark, blown look to Sherlock’s pupil that’s John’s only ever seen before in bed.

Sebastian makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat, and several things snap into focus. John immediately wishes that they hadn’t. One of Sherlock’s long, pale hands is sliding around Moriarty’s slender waist and pulling him closer, and –

“Oh,” John says, toneless with disbelief, “My god.”

“Yeah,” Sebastian agrees, eyeing the two geniuses with disgust. “That’s about how I feel. Maybe with a bit more cursing.”

Sherlock’s eyes cloud over, until John’s reasonably sure he can’t see the table at all. Or the wine glass clasped in his shaking hand. His fingers are digging cruelly into Jim’s suit jacket.

John is extremely glad that Seb’s done the ordering, because he’s going to need a drink. Immediately. Followed by several other, larger drinks, and a very long sleep, and then maybe a few rounds of therapy.

“Here.”

John’s dimly aware that Sebastian’s shoving a pocket-flask into his hands. The cold metal is wet with condensation. He takes a long swallow on instinct and almost immediately hacks half of his lung up. His eyes water painfully. Whatever’s in the flask tastes like a forest fire, or liquid nitrogen.

John glares at Sebastian. “What the hell is that?”

“Arak. Didn’t you ever buy booze from the Iraqis?” Sebastian grins, snags the flask back, and gulps what must be half of it down in a swallow. He tilts his head back to get the last drops, so John is _forced_ to watch the strong tendons in his throat stand out on each swallow. Yes, absolutely forced. That’s the word for it.

God, if this is the way Sherlock’s birthday is going to go, John is outlawing the sixth of January forever. He sneaks another peak at Sebastian, trying not to focus on the way new scars pull at the skin on the back of Seb’s hands. John doesn’t want to ask how Seb got them. But there’s something about the way the melted-wax texture moves over Sebastian’s tendons that makes John want to trace them with his fingertips.

The thought triggers memories of Sebastian, shirtless in the Afghan moonlight with shrapnel scars criss-crossing his ribs. The difference in texture beneath John’s touch made them feel like tiger stripes. Sebastian was on the ground with his head tossed back on his bunk, hands over his head gripping at the cheap foldable frame. He’d hissed John’s name like a curse, the muscles in his stomach tight with the effort of keeping quiet, and John had smiled against his hipbone – _Thought I was a wilting little twink you could tease –_ But it’d been John who’d come undone, in the end –

John blinks the restaurant back into focus with a sharp inhale. Sebastian looks at him curiously; cynical eyebrow arched. For a terrifying heartbeat John wonders if his thoughts are written on his face – but Sherlock and Moriarty, luckily, are dead to the rest of the world. And Seb never cared enough about other people’s thoughts to learn to read them. John shakes his head minutely, shrugging his shoulders at the same time; international gesture for _don’t ask._

Sebastian frowns and opens his mouth to ask anyways – because of course he does – but they’re interrupted by the waitress. Sebastian makes his flask disappear into his suit pocket, and she distributes drinks. She ignores Sherlock and Jim with the aplomb and practice of someone who’s not paid enough to care. John gulps half the ESB she sets in front of him down without even registering the taste.

The legs of Seb’s chair squeal against the floor as he scoots it closer to John. Moriarty’s twisting a curl of Sherlock’s hair around his finger, so tight his nail is going purple.

“Bet I know what we’re doing tonight,” Seb murmurs, with a truly evil glint in his eye.

**J.M.**

Sebastian orders a few rounds to follow before Jim gets a chance to drink his first, which means there’s four scotches (all neat, all too warm now to properly enjoy) sitting forgotten on the table when Jim finally pulls himself away from Sherlock’s ear.

There’s a little bruise starting just beneath it, half-hidden by Sherlock’s velvety curls. Jim’d gotten tired of talking. Sherlock’s chest is rising and falling rapidly. There’s going to be black marks in the shape of Sherlock’s fingertips on Jim’s waist tomorrow – and judging from the rigid heat poking against Jim’s thigh, if they go very much longer, Sherlock’s going to find it hard to walk out of the restaurant.

Well, happy birthday to _him_.

Jim can feel Sherlock’s breath against his skin, so heavy and rushed Sherlock might as well have been doing laps. Sherlock’s bottom lip is red from biting it. Jim lets his eyes trail, very slowly, up to Sherlock’s; cataloging the signs of arousal as they appear. The flushed cheeks. The pulse leaping in Sherlock’s throat, the quiver in his breathing… and the tell-tale blow of his pupils, so dark and devouring they swallow his irises.

Jim feels a crocodile’s smile, cold and triumphant, spread over his face. “Don’t _you_ look delicious,” he purrs against Sherlock’s lips.

“Decided to surface for air, have you?” Sebastian slurs from across the table. Jim shoots a warning glare at him and is pleasantly surprised to find that Tiger’s already managed to get an arm around the back of John Watson’s chair. The good doctor, to Jim’s delight, has five beers empty in front of him and is swaying into the heat of Seb’s chest. Either he’s drunk, or much more comfortable with cheating on Sherlock than Jim had allowed for. The first seems a _bit_ more likely.

Poor loyal, lovely, _dear_ little John. He’s _entirely_ fucked now. While Sebastian is keeping up, five empty beers and a sixth in his hand, Jim knows he’s barely tipsy. Being Irish, Jim’d insisted on several drinking bouts before he trusted Sebastian with liquor at all.

The competitive drinking had stopped with a broken femur and four dead cats that in hindsight really _shouldn’t_ have been hung from the chandelier. It just looked tacky _._

Jim grins at the thought. He wiggles tighter in to Sherlock’s lap, rubbing his thigh against Sherlock’s cock as he does. Sherlock does Jim the pleasure of moaning, so deep and rumbling Jim can feel it in his bones like a drum. He can’t help the spike of anticipation and desire it sends shooting up his throat.

Jim does _love_ birthday presents. Giving and getting.

“I think we have Watson,” he whispers in Sherlock’s ear, and nods to indicate the scene across the table from them. He can feel Sherlock’s quiet inhale of satisfaction like a ripple through water. John’s consent isthe only stepping stone left, after all. Sebastian had been for it from the beginning – maybe because if Sebastian’s moral compass is even working, it _definitely_ isn’t pointing North.

Jim tilts his head, running Sherlock’s earlobe in over his teeth. Sherlock’s breath catches. “This _is_ what you wanted, isn’t it?” he purrs, knowing that it’s not even a question. “Look at them, Sherly… our soldier boys. They’re going to fuck you so _hard_ tonight…” He licks a wet line around the shell of Sherlock’s ear, and underneath him, Sherlock trembles. Jim knows he’s watching the two men across the table, and has a pretty good idea what’s going on. Tigers don’t tend to hesitate on easy prey.

Jim can just picture Sebastian’s fingers sliding along John’s throat. Under his chin. Whispering memories in John’s ear until he’s wound up and aching…

It’s what they planned, after all.

“Are you _excited?”_ Jim breathes. “Or would you rather it be John, tied up and leaking pre-cum onto my sheets… Do you want me to whisper in your ear as you fuck him? Have you fantasized about it already?”

Sherlock makes a short sound in the back of his throat. It’s only a matter of time until he manages to turn the tables, of course. Jim can’t have him this helpless forever. But while he’s got the upper hand, Jim _revels_ in it. He buries his face in Sherlock’s curls – using it as an excuse to glance across the table and catch Sebastian’s eye.

When Jim winks, Sebastian nods. John’s head is pillowed on his shoulder, ashy hair tucked under Seb’s chin. His lips are parted. Sebastian’s fingers are trailing down the bare skin of his neck.

Sebastian bends his head to John’s ear. Jim knows what he’s saying, but only because they rehearsed it beforehand. “Sherlock asked us to dinner. And he asked us to take him home after. You can follow along, if you like. If you want. But if you come, you’re coming to bed with me. I can’t hold back after all this time. Not anymore.”

Desperate words. Sentimental words. Perfectly delivered, of course, exactly the way Jim wrote them.

John starts to nod, and Jim smiles his triumphant, crocodile smile.

**S.M.**

They all make it inside the door of Conduit Street house. Then someone gets a fucking tight grip on Sebastian’s hair, and slams him face-first into the wall of the front hallway. For a second he thinks it’s Jim – but the whip-thin body pressed tight against his back is way too tall, and there’s no way Jim’s cock would ever push against Sebastian’s ass like _that_ while they’re both standing.

Jim’d be lucky if he reached Seb’s upper thigh.

So it’s Holmes, then, Holmes’ fingers that twist in Sebastian’s hair, until it feels like the back of his head’s on fire. He has to wrench his head back, baring his throat, just to take some of the pressure off. Seb growls and tries to shove himself back from the wall. He knows he’s stronger than Sherlock – in a physical fight, there should be no contest. But Sherlock’s got a trick of planting his feet, or a clever way of keeping his balance, and Sebastian can’t shove him off. Sherlock crushes Sebastian back against the wall, and Sebastian _snarls,_ but he’s helpless anyways. There’s a twist of panic around his heart.

And then, following it, a wave of breathless, anticipatory desire. Fuck, if helplessness and pain didn’t get Seb off, he wouldn’t be sleeping with Jim.

“Do I have to convince you of my dominance before we begin?” Sherlock’s mouth must be a hair from Sebastian’s ear. He tries to jerk his head away, but Sherlock holds him firm. _Fuck._ “Or prove I can satisfy your masochism?” His hand slides over Seb’s thigh. Sebastian tenses, twitching. When the hot palm of Sherlock’s hand grinds against his cock, he catches a hiss between his teeth. _Oh, fuck – fuck – **fuck** – _ “I shouldn’t have to remind you that you’re doing this on _my_ terms, Colonel, and I am well aware of your problems with discipline. Consider this a demonstration. You can’t fight your way past my mind.” The words shouldn’t sound fucking sinful. Sherlock’s basically giving him a lecture on _brains vs. brawn,_ after all. But the absolute, implacable control… the baritone growl of Sherlock’s voice, like an engine revving under Sebastian’s skin…

Seb squirms against the wall, fucking _squirms,_ and can feel himself getting hard under Sherlock’s hand. “I don’t appreciate being insulted,” Sherlock continues, “And if you so much as _attempt_ to wrest control from me, I _will_ consider it an insult to my intelligence.” He strokes, tight and hard and dirty, twisting his wrist so cloth bunches around Sebastian’s cock. “And I _will_ punish you.”

Sebastian tries not to make any sounds that could be construed as whimpering, with limited success.

“He _does_ know how to be good _,_ ” Jim complains with amusement, somewhere far behind them. “You would think I didn’t train my pets at all…”

Sherlock fists Sebastian’s cock again, and Sebastian can’t help grinding his hips forward into it. His fingernails dig at the wall. The painfully rough drag of the fabric over his cock makes his nerves sing, so hot and vivid Sebastian can’t even tell if it’s pleasure or pain. A noise forces out over Seb’s tongue despite his best attempts to keep his mouth shut, and he’s rewarded by the low rush of Holmes’s laughter at his ear.

Sherlock lets Sebastian go and steps back. Sebastian’s forehead thunks forward against the wall. He tries for a deep breath and manages a shallow one, panting and quick.

“Bedroom’s upstairs,” Jim adds helpfully. The floor creaks as Sherlock moves.

 _This is fucking insane,_ one corner of Sebastian’s brain supplies helpfully.

 _Christ, I want to see him fuck Jim,_ pipes up another part. Sebastian doesn’t think about that – mainly because he’s already rock-fucking-hard, and the idea of watching Jim and Sherlock duke it out makes his stomach do some fucked-up things.

Sebastian pushes off the wall and turns to face Jim. To Seb’s surprise, John Watson is still standing in the hall, even though Sherlock’s gone upstairs. Jim has one hand on the back of John’s neck, holding him immobile. John looks like he doesn’t know whether to be terrified, or morally outraged, or so turned on he can’t be either.

“I thought you might want to reaffirm your masculinity,” Jim drawls. “So I kept this one back.” He’s mocking Sebastian, but Sebastian doesn’t care. He wants John, and _now,_ and if Jim is mocking him – well, Jim’s always mocking him for something or other.

John shivers when Sebastian crosses the distance between them. It’s not much of a movement. If this was five years ago, Sebastian might have missed it, but he’s picking up tricks from Jim now. So he notices the clench of John’s fist on air, like John’s squeezing an imaginary stress ball. He notices the way John’s breathing picks up.

Jim hasn’t let go of John’s neck. He smiles up at Sebastian, innocent and sweet – the kind of fake-sweet that kills lab rats. John’s eyes slide from Seb’s eyes to his lips. The tip of his tongue darts out, wet and pink and tempting.

“Now, dear,” Jim breathes, soft and still mocking, “Show me how _dominant_ you are.”

Sebastian hates him for it, but he _wants_ , so he obeys Jim anyways. He steps forward, crowding John back into Jim’s hand. He can see Jim’s fingers go white as he grips John’s neck tighter. Then Sebastian is grabbing John’s chin. He’s forcing John’s face upwards. John’s breath is caught, his lips parted, his eyes already closing because as much as he might protest, he will always, _always_ want Sebastian.

That’s what Sebastian thinks, anyways. Right before he crushes his mouth down on John’s.

It isn’t nice. It might be – five years apart, after all, they could be long-lost-lovers. But they’re not. They’re soldiers. What happened between them wasn’t romance, it was _war_ , and Sebastian broke the most important rule of all when he left John defenseless in a fight. So when Sebastian’s lips seal over John’s, John responds on combat instinct; he grabs Sebastian’s shirt, hauling him in, and kisses like he means it to hurt. He buries his teeth in Sebastian’s lip, and when Sebastian’s mouth opens on a gasp, thrusts his tongue forward into Seb’s mouth. It’s an accusation. Sebastian grabs John’s belt loops and yanks him forward. He bites back; shaking John’s head in his hand like a dog shakes a rat, both of them snarling. John twists his fists in Sebastian’s shirt, tilting his head, deepening the kiss. Wrenching them closer together. He kisses Sebastian like he wants to tear Sebastian down, and Sebastian gives back every dirty trick and slide of tongue and twisted painful pleasure he’s learned in the years with Jim.

In the end, it’s John that moans. John that gasps Sebastian’s name, crushes himself weakly into Sebastian’s chest.

“Good _dog,_ ” Jim grins, fingernails dug into John’s neck so hard they’ve drawn blood. Sebastian pulls himself back enough to see John’s face. John’s eyes are blazing; that indeterminate grey that can seem any colour cast lit frost-bite blue in anger. Seb wouldn’t be surprised if John’s no longer aware at all of Jim’s hand on the scruff of his neck.

The silence between them is taut like an elastic longing to snap back to place. John’s mouth is firm. His head tilts just a little to the side, chin lifting in a silent challenge.

“Sebastian,” Jim chides, “Where are your manners? You haven’t even offered to show our guest upstairs.”

John’s eyes flick to Jim warily, then back to Sebastian; a quick threat-assessment. Seb wonders what he sees, but it doesn’t really matter. Not at this point. Not when he can see in the strain of John’s trousers that John is already deeply, deeply fucked.

Seb nods in the direction of the staircase, and they turn almost in one motion like matched horses bred to the harness. John takes the bare wooden stairs a half-step ahead of Sebastian, both of them going two-at-a-time so their footsteps sound like a racing heartbeat; _da-dum, da-dum, da-dum._

Behind them, Jim sings softly, “ _Some talk of Al-lex-ahhhnder, and some of Her-cue-lees…”_ and Seb doesn’t want to think about what it means for his sanity when _that_ makes him laugh.

\-------

When Sebastian enters the bedroom, Sherlock is standing at the bedside table with his back to the door. His white button-up shirt is shrugged off his shoulders, hanging around the small of his back as he picks at the buttons on his cuffs. If you’d asked Sebastian before that moment, he would have described Sherlock in near-skeletal terms; slender. Gaunt. _Scrawny._ But Sherlock’s back is all well-defined muscle; hugged close to his bones, without a whisper of fat, so that at a glance he could easily be mistaken for thin.

Sherlock half-turns as Sebastian comes through the door and frowns, the hollow of his throat a deep well between his collarbones. There’s something inviting about it; something about his neck that begs to be wrenched, sucked on, bruised.

Seb finally gets why Jim likes fucking him for more than the pure intellectual stimulation of it. Seb can hear the wet sound of John’s licking his lips. They’re shoulder to shoulder in the door-way, staring, and it might be a bit _teenage,_ but there’s a thin trail of dark hair tracing down Sherlock’s flat stomach beneath the waist of his tight black trousers.

“Well?” Sherlock demands, impatiently, “Are you just going to _stand_ there?” Sebastian wants to snap at him until he hears John’s exasperated, laughing exhale. Seb turns his head, catching John’s eye.

“Bit of a brat?” he asks, faux-casual.

“Bit,” John replies back, with a terrifyingly wicked grin. “Tried to suck it out of him, of course…” Sebastian groans. He remembers the things John’s mouth can do. Before he can stop himself, he snags John’s wrist and starts pulling him in. God _damn,_ Seb may hate Sherlock, but _this…_

“Don’t get too excited without me,” Jim drawls in the doorway, the words carrying a nonchalant weight of disapproval, and Sebastian freezes as if Jim’d put a gun to his head. Seb turns – they all turn, John with an edge of fear, even Sherlock focusing his attention on Jim like a hound scenting blood – and there Jim is in the doorway. Center of attention. Tugging his tie loose from his throat in quick, short jerks, until the fabric drags away from the back of his neck with a sinful, silken sound. Jim drops it to the floor with consummate showmanship.

He walks past Seb and John as if they’re not even there, chin lifted, the corner of his mouth curving in a hungry smile. At the bedside table, Sherlock shuts his eyes long enough to breathe out, slow and even. Sebastian recognizes the look of someone trying to calm their heartbeat, and pities Sherlock.

Jim places his palm flat on Sherlock’s waist and glides it up over the flat plane of his chest. “Besides,” he purrs, “It’s Sherlock’s birthday. You should be asking him what _he_ wants.” Jim has to crane his neck all the way back to look at Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes nearly cover his lashes as he looks back down, a thick haze through which his bright irises fade into the whites of his eyes. He bites his lip – thoughtfully, more than anything – and glances at John and Sebastian.

Seb realizes he’s still got John’s wrist and his grip tightens instinctively. John hisses, pulse jumping under Seb’s fingers, but he doesn’t attempt to pull away. Sherlock’s pale eyes glide from John’s throat to Sebastian, and Seb feels –

Seb feels like an antelope staring down a cheetah, unsure of which way to make his break and knowing he’ll be caught however he moves. He’s never liked Sherlock. He’s certainly never considered _fucking_ Sherlock before tonight – that’s Jim’s game. But Sherlock’s eyes narrow, and Sebastian feels his chest constrict in sympathy.

He can’t help but remember that growl – _and I **will** punish you –_ and his stomach goes hollow and hungry.

“Tie _him_ to the corner of the bed,” Sherlock decides, without looking away. “Hands behind him, on his knees.” Sebastian, with the feel of a deer in headlights, can’t move – not while Sherlock’s eyes are holding him still. The air of the room is so thick Sebastian’s lungs seem to have trouble moving it in and out. Underneath his fingers, John’s pulse hammers out a rhythm like a speeding train, far too fast and entirely unrelenting.

Jim hums, thoughtfully. Sebastian rips his eyes away from Sherlock long enough to see that Jim’s fingers are busy with the button of Sherlock’s trousers. His mouth bends to Sherlock’s chest as Sebastian watches, lips sealing over Sherlock’s nipple.

Jim’s mouth does something that makes Sherlock _hiss,_ and in the same breath John makes a noise that might be protest, but isn’t. His hand twists in Sebastian’s grip, a sharp movement that wrenches him out of Sebastian’s control. Sebastian tears himself from the sight of Jim with a growl– fingers at Sherlock’s belt, teeth sunk in Sherlock’s chest – reaching out for John before he’s even properly turned.

Seb should know better.

Captain John Watson was known for a handful of things in his regiment – steady hands in field stitching, a good enough bedside manner that they’d taken to calling him _nurse,_ and being able to take any man on the base three falls out of ten in a grappling match. He kicks Sebastian’s legs out from under him with a practiced sweep, and before Seb’s even hit the ground John is on top of him, straddling him, hands slamming Sebastian’s wrists down against the floor.

Somebody whoops. It’s probably Jim.

Sebastian grunts, plants his feet, and bucks his hips up, trying to throw John. John rides him easily, dragging Sebastian’s elbows down to pin them under his knees. His weight settles square on Sebastian’s chest, holding him down. Sebastian’s hollow stomach is filling with liquid flame. He snarls, and starts to say something – not sure _what_ , even as he opens his mouth, but probably something inane like _get off of me,_ or _fuck you,_ or –

John punches Sebastian in the face; not one of Jim’s neat, quick jabs but a powerful right hook that slams Seb sideways like a brick wall. The whole world darkens, and a ringing sound envelops Sebastian’s hearing. His cheek is on fire – feeling instantly swollen and broken.

And adrenaline bursts through Sebastian’s brain so fast and violent his head swims. He’s not even aware of Jim and Sherlock anymore; John grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks his neck up at an angle so awkward it isn’t just uncomfortable but actively _painful_. Sebastian snarls in protest, yanking his head away as best he can. He keeps trying to throw John off; but every time Sebastian’s hips twist and lift from the floor, John’s hips roll forwards to stay steady, nearly thrusting his cock into Sebastian’s mouth.

Until he slides his weight backwards. Until his mouth seals over Sebastian’s again.

Then John is ravaging Sebastian’s mouth, demanding and wild and just a little sloppy, like they’re back in a warzone with only a few minutes before somebody finds them. Like John is trying to rip all the pleasure he can from Sebastian’s mouth, before the opportunity is gone. There’s no subtlety to it; John doesn’t bother with teasing, licking his way slow into Sebastian’s mouth. He bites and pushes at Sebastian on pure animal instinct, groaning like a wounded beast into Sebastian’s mouth.

It makes Sebastian’s head go light all over again, pain and pleasure and adrenaline all blurred up and inseperable.

John loses his hold, flattening himself over Sebastian completely. His thigh shoves between Sebastian’s legs. His hands tangle in Sebastian’s hair, leaving his elbows to take most of his weight. Now when Seb bucks his hips up his cock rubs against the unyielding muscle of John’s thigh, and he can feel John pressing hard against his hipbone.

It’s just enough sensation to make Sebastian moan in frustration. John catches the sound with his mouth, thrusts it back to Sebastian on his tongue. The world narrows to the two of them; god knows and god _cares_ what Sherlock and Jim are doing, now. Sebastian just needs _more._

John’s thigh presses against his cock and it’s not enough. It’s not close to enough. Sebastian growls, twists his hips, and rolls them over – slamming John flat on his back on the floor. He kicks John’s feet apart and forces himself between John’s legs, earning himself a ragged gasp from John’s kiss-reddened lips. Sebastian buries his teeth in John’s neck with fierce joy, the skin sweat-damp and hot in his mouth. John clutches at his back, and Sebastian grinds their cocks together like if he just pushes hard enough their clothing will disappear.

John cries something out, wordless and needy. He claws at Sebastian’s back like he has every intention of drawing blood.

Then a hand clamps down on Sebastian’s shoulder, and hauls him roughly up off John. Fingers dig into the pressure points of Sebastian’s collarbone, so tight and unforgiving the bone threatens to break if he doesn’t lift off. Seb, a little bit mindless with lust, is stupid enough to struggle.

“I wouldn’t,” Jim hisses in his ear, “It’s not worth dying over, is it, Tiger?” Sebastian stills. Jim wraps his arms around Sebastian’s neck to get the buttons of his shirt, pressing a chaste kiss to Sebastian’s jugular. “Get his trousers, would you, pet?” Jim asks, presumably of John. His deft fingers lay Sebastian’s shirt open quick and easy, baring his chest. Seb shivers. John’s knuckles press against his cock, separated by the thick fabric of his trousers, and Sebastian sags helplessly back against Jim’s chest.

He shuts his eyes as Sherlock leans in to his other side, peeling his shirt off his shoulder.

“I thought I told you not to try to win, Moran,” he purrs, dark and deep like rolling thunder. “Now I’m not even sure if I’m willing to let you enjoy _any_ of this. It is my birthday, after all…” The stir of Seb’s hair under Sherlock’s breath feels like a threat. John pulls Sebastian’s belt off with a sharp sound, as leather pulls at the cloth of Sebastian’s belt loops. He undoes the zipper what seems like painfully slowly – Seb can’t help a groan as his cock comes free of the confining fabric. Jim laughs breathlessly in his ear.

Sebastian opens his eyes as John draws his cock out from his trousers. John, trapped between Sebastian’s legs, a loose circle of fingers running down Sebastian’s cock. John’s eyes dark. His lips wet. Sebastian’s breath stills in his chest, and he feels a pulse of precum drip from his slit.

Jim’s cold fingers slide under his chin, and Sebastian turns his head long enough to allow his bottom lip to be ferociously bitten, and then Sherlock and Jim are dragging him off John to the bedpost.

They’ve both gotten naked at some point, god knows when, and Jim’s got a bruise on his throat in the shape of Sherlock’s teeth. He’s hard already, his cock slick with more than precum. Sherlock’s lips are just as red as John’s, although Sebastian doesn’t think it’s from _kissing._ Their hands on him are like a matching set; both so hot it feels like burning, and when they tie him to the bedpost Sebastian doesn’t even _care_ about the rough sting of the rope – not as long as they keep touching him, not as long as Jim’s nails keep gripping at his flesh.

When the knots are secure Jim sits back on his heels and looks at Sebastian consideringly. It’s an expression that usually makes Seb nervous. Sebastian feels his chest heave with the effort of breathing. Jim tilts his head to the side; his hair flying out at a hundred impossible angles, as it always does when he’s well-fucked. Despite the futility of it, Sebastian pulls at the rope; wanting Jim, wanting _on_ Jim, wanting the violent perfection of Jim’s mouth over his. Jim just laughs, softly. He reaches out, trails a finger down Sebastian’s stomach until he can drag it through the pearly white beads of Sebastian’s precum.

“Go get yours ready,” Jim says in an aside to Sherlock, “Sebby’s all mine.”

Sherlock nods. Sebastian watches Jim – on the boundary between nervous and hopeful. He has no fucking idea what’s going to happen next. But – ah, _fuck._ Christ, he wants Jim. Seb sucks his bottom lip in over his teeth and bites it hard, just for the pain to steady him. Jim meets his eyes, smiles, and looks down. As Sebastian watches Jim trails his fingers down his own chest to his cock, takes it loosely in hand, and strokes. There’s a slick sound as he fists himself, with the wetness of Sherlock’s mouth for lube.

Sebastian yanks the rope. He’s so hard it’s getting _painful._ “ _Jim_ – “

“Not now, dear,” Jim replies, tongue wetting his lips in a quick amused flick. Sebastian’s stomach drops. For the first time, he considers that they might just tie him up and _leave_ him like this. He moans. As if reading his mind, Jim gets up – Sebastian can hear him pad to the bedside table, out of sight.

When Jim moves, Sebastian has a clear view of the room. In front of him, on the floor, is a bottle of uncapped lube. John’s still on his back, but his trousers are now shoved awkwardly down around his thighs. Sherlock folds over him; his flawless skin exquisitely pale as he bites at John’s throat. John’s head is thrown back on the floor, eyes squeezed shut, his mouth working soundlessly. One of Sherlock’s hands moves between his legs, short thrusting motions, and there’s the slick sound of John’s body being penetrated…

Sebastian shuts his eyes and bangs his skull against the bedpost, fighting to keep breath and brain about him. His skin itches and crawls, like his whole body’s gone asleep – pins and needles, anticipation and frustration so sublime it’s painful. Sebastian is drowning. Christ, he’d beg for real now, if Jim would let him, just for a hand on his cock. Just for a _kiss._ Sebastian shifts his hips, but can’t get any of the pressure off; his cock lays rigid and leaking on his stomach, precum smearing over his skin. He’s so desperate that the brush of air over on him makes Seb want to moan.

_Fuck, when did I decide this would be a good idea –_

Seb’s eyes fly open when Jim’s hand closes around his ankle, and jerks it to the side. He can’t go anywhere, though, and Jim just grins. Seb’s thighs fall open, leaving him obscenely spread. Jim’s got a bottle of lube in one hand, a dark rubber plug sitting by his knee, and an expression on his face that Sebastian recognizes from horror movies. Sebastian opens his mouth, and Jim raises one eyebrow.

Just that. It’s enough.

Sebastian moans and lapses back into silence. He trembles as Jim glides two lubed fingers up the inside of his thigh.

When they push inside him – both at once, because Jim _can,_ because he doesn’t _have_ to be considerate, Sebastian throws back his head and cries out in a way that can only embarrass him later. It leaves his throat raw. He arches his back, grinding himself down on Jim’s fingers as they shove up into him. The fullness of it, sudden and just-this-side of painful, makes the back of his throat go thick. Jim isn’t trying for his prostate – not even close. He’s fucking Sebastian _open_ rather than trying to get Sebastian _off._

It’s still almost too much. Sebastian bites at his lip, his cheek, his tongue. The pain does nothing to help him control himself. He tosses his head and shoulders back, curving his spine, trying to ride Jim’s fingers enough to push them where he wants them. Where he needs them. There’s an electric brush of pressure on his prostate – more accident than anything – and Sebastian thinks he might _scream…_

Then Jim’s fingers are withdrawing.

Then there’s the blunt nudge of the plug at Sebastian’s entrance. It’s narrow at first, but much, _much_ wider than two fingers at the base. Jim fucks it in to him with shallow, ever deepening thrusts, working Sebastian open until he feels like he might split.

The plug isn’t long; maybe three inches, but it’s wide, and Sebastian is so desperate for sensation that by the time Jim shoves it home he’s practically crying. It’s almost – _almost –_

If he curves his back and grinds himself against the floor at just the right angle, he can brush the very tip of the plug against his own prostate. It’s not near enough to get him off. And it’s fucking _humiliating –_ rubbing himself against the carpet like a fucking _dog._

“Ready,” Jim chimes. Sebastian keens. Jim pats his cheek fondly and Sebastian opens his eyes. The world is blurred, and Jim’s smile is wolfish, and Sherlock is dragging John over to them.

“Make me proud,” Jim says, and the feel of his voice on the air makes Seb moan. Grind his hips down. Brush the very tip of the plug against his prostate, sending off the faintest hint of sparks, and it’s not _enough –_

Sebastian can tell someone’s standing in front of him by the heat of their body against his skin before they even touch him. Calloused fingers grab his chin and push his head upwards. Sebastian looks obediently up; John’s standing over him, cock in one hand, looking so fucked out and wrecked that Sebastian yanks at the ropes again, _needing_ to touch him.

The rough cord winds tighter around his wrists, holding firm. Sebastian snarls.

“Open _uuuup,_ ” Jim sings again. Sebastian can’t see where he’s standing. And he can’t look away from John, either; the dark, mindless look in John’s eye, the flush of his skin. The picture of John’s face, gasping as Sherlock’s fingers thrust into him, is vivid in Sebastian’s mind.

He opens. John guides his cock into Sebastian’s mouth, smearing pre-cum over his lips. His skin is hot and smooth, the blunt heat of him pushing Sebastian’s mouth wide. Sebastian can’t taste him, until his tongue licks out and over John’s slit; John is salty, and just a little bitter, and when Sebastian’s tongue presses against him his whole body shudders. He whimpers. His eyes squeeze shut, and Sebastian shuts his as well; focusing on the taste and slide of John’s cock into his mouth. Seb leans forward, straining against the rope; John is _polite,_ as a rule, won’t press – won’t fuck his way into Sebastian’s throat, he’ll let Sebastian have control –

The movement shifts the plug inside Sebastian and he can’t help a moan that vibrates his mouth. The world has narrowed, to the taste of John’s skin and the slide of Seb’s mouth over it. He doesn’t even notice movement behind John. He doesn’t consider why Sherlock’s arms are wrapping around John’s chest. The scent of John fills Sebastian’s breath, and the rock of the plug inside him only gets better the further he leans forward. John moans. Seb is lost in him.

When Sherlock’s hips snap forward and force John into the back of Sebastian’s throat, he chokes. His eyes water. John cries out – a raw scream, ripped from the back of his throat. Sebastian barely has time to recover before Sherlock does it again; fucking into John with quick, brutal thrusts. Each time he does he drives John forward, into Sebastian’s throat, until the back of it is bruised and tender and Sebastian is moaning in pain around John’s cock.

John gabbles something – useless, wordless syllables, lost into moans. His cock forces Sebastian’s jaw wider open, the unrelenting pace of Sherlock fucking him making Sebastian’s eyes water. He can feel saliva starting to pool and drip over his chin, thick sticky strands connecting John’s cock with his lips. His jaw and throat scream protest, aching already, and Sebastian can’t help the gagging sounds he’s making as John’s cock fills his throat –

But with each push, Sebastian is rocked back onto the plug, and he’s just so hard – just so fucking _aching_ – that he thinks he might go insane.

Sherlock’s got a hand splayed on John’s stomach, controlling his movements. John tries to brace himself on the post – tries to give Sebastian as much reprieve as he can – but there’s no way. As soon as he tries, Sherlock shifts his stance and fucks him deeper; long, hard pulls that draw John almost entirely out of Sebastian’s mouth before slamming him home again. Sebastian can hear the slap of flesh on flesh – the slick, wet sounds of Sherlock’s cock in John’s ass – the helpless, grunting moans John’s making.

John’s cock starts to twitch, muscles tensing. He’s panting above Sebastian, quick and noisy, his legs trembling. Sebastian can feel his cock start to pulse, where the vein of it is sliding over his tongue.

 _No,_ he thinks, _Fuck, no,_ the stupid little plug isn’t near enough, and he needs more, they can’t just get off and –

Sherlock’s hips pound forward brutally hard, beginning to lose their rhythm, and John’s cock tightens in Sebastian’s mouth. Sebastian can feel orgasm build like it’s a physical thing under John’s skin, a ripple in his muscles. When John comes, it hits the back of Sebastian’s throat – is drawn out as Sherlock pulls back, filling Seb’s mouth – and is forced back into his throat again, as Sherlock finishes himself off. Sebastian coughs, hacking as best he can around John’s softening cock.

It’s a miracle that John remains standing. When Sherlock finally finishes – driving John so hard into Sebastian that Seb’s nose crushes against John’s pelvic bone – John is sweat drenched, and shivering. His cock slips limply out from Sebastian’s mouth.

Sebastian groans with the frustration of it, hating them, hating himself, hating the fire under his skin that he can’t relieve. Sherlock pulls John off – god knows where they’re going, only that they’re gone – and then Jim is kneeling in front of Sebastian. Half-blind with sheer frustrated desire, Sebastian whines when Jim’s fingers stroke along his jaw, tilting his head to chase the contact.

“Poor, poor _Tiger,_ ” Jim murmurs, mockingly. “Did you want to get off?” Sebastian nods – Jim’s fingers trail over his lips, and he tries to lick them – suck them – _anything,_ to convince Jim to let him finally fucking come. Jim laughs. “Before _I_ do?” There’s a note of warning in his voice. Danger. There’s a proper response here, and _hell_ to pay if Sebastian doesn’t get it.

Sebastian takes a deep breath, grits his teeth, and shakes his head. Jim laughs again, _fuck_ him, because he’s won, because Jim _always_ wins. And Sebastian is a fucking _wreck._ Jim stands and steps neatly away – not so far that Sebastian can’t see him, because this is malevolent Jim – this is Jim-being-cruel –

“Sherlock,” Jim purrs, self-satisfied. Sebastian watches the slender detective cross the floor and fold his long limbs down in front of Jim, kneeling with his slender back resting on his ankles. He’s facing away from Sebastian – the long, muscled curve of his spine bent towards Jim. Towards Jim’s _cock._ Jim trails his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, letting them fall like velvet over his fingers. He looks up at Sebastian as he does it and smiles, sadistic and sharp and cutting as a razorblade.

“ _Suck,_ ” he commands Sherlock, not looking away from Sebastian, and the muscles of Sherlock’s shoulders grow tense as he shifts forwards on his knees and obeys.

Watching is fucking torture. It’s endless. It’s an eternity. Sebastian doesn’t know how he can stand it – Jim with his head thrown back, moaning pornographically, playing it up for his furious audience. And – _damn_ Jim – it fucking _works._ It should be impossible for Seb to get more turned on, but he does. The precum leaking on to Sebastian’s skin feels like fucking fire. He squirms, working the plug as much as he can, snarling and growling like a caged animal with the frustration of never, _never_ having enough.

Jim’s fingers are white in Sherlock’s hair, his nails digging in. Sherlock’s ass comes up off his heels as he leans forward, and Sebastian watches as Jim’s hips start to twitch. Jim thrusts into Sherlock’s mouth, slow at first, and then faster as Sherlock gets used to it.

No matter how much Sebastian licks his lips, they still seem dry. He gulps for air, watching Jim grab Sherlock’s head and jam it down onto his cock ruthlessly.

“Here,” says a friendly, warm voice at Sebastian’s ear, “Let me help you with that.”

Sebastian twists his head to the side enough to feel John’s sweat-damp hair pressing against his cheeks. John wraps his arms around Sebastian, wiggling awkwardly between his bound hands and the bedpost. When he brushes the base of the plug, Sebastian screams – fucking _screams,_ before he can bite his cheek to muffle it. The pleasure is so intense it’s very nearly pain. John’s fist wraps tight around Sebastian’s cock. His fingers grab the base of the plug.

Sebastian’s panting something into John’s hair and it might be begging and it might be grovelling, abject gratitude. John moves the plug just a few degrees, finding the right angle, and pushes it upwards. Directly into Sebastian’s prostate.

The whole room goes dark. Sebastian’s back arcs like he’s been struck by lightning. John’s fist works on his cock, slipping frictionless through the precum, and he slams the plug up against Sebastian’s prostate – and again –

And it’s only three thrusts, and fuck, Sebastian should have more control – it shouldn’t be this easy – he should –

But he can’t –

And –

_Oh –_

When Sebastian finally comes, the whole world is lost in a brilliant spray of white insensibility, and he thinks nothing at all.

It’s only _afterwards_ that he allows that he might like birthdays.

A bit.


End file.
